Slice and Dice (29 page)

His hand caressed her skin until she closed her eyes and gave a soft moan.

“I don’t want to think any more tonight.”

Touching the belt of her robe, he whispered, “I can’t do this.” At the same time, he realized that the urge to untie it was almost irresistible.

“I know,” she whispered back. “But a man is dead, and we need to feel alive. Make me feel alive, Bram. Drive the shadows away … just for a little while.”

Sophie stood at the living room window while Nathan prepared a dessert tray in the kitchen. “I think they’ve finally got that car fire out.” During dinner, they’d heard an explosion that was so loud it shook the building and rattled the windows. Once the worst of the rumbling was over, they’d rushed to look outside.

Halfway down the block on the other side of the street, a car was burning out of control. Nathan seemed alternately fascinated and repelled. Sophie felt pretty much the same way, although she had no interest in taking the elevator down to view the fire close up, as Nathan suggested. They argued about it briefly. Sophie insisted it was too dangerous. Eventually, her better judgment won out.

Nathan’s friend lived in the Tate Building, a 1920s apartment complex that had recently been turned into condos. It was pure luck that the location had given them such an intimate view of the scene. Resigned to remaining four stories above the action, Nathan wondered out loud if it hadn’t been a gas-tank leak. Sophie thought it might have been a bomb.

Shortly after the car had gone up in flames, the police blocked off both ends of the street. All the curious onlookers had been rounded up and ordered out of the area. The presence of a paramedic van and at least five squad cars was an ominous but necessary sight under the circumstances. Someone had been hurt, all right, possibly killed. Knowing they’d learn the details soon enough on the local news, they eventually returned to the dining room.

Nathan had set a lovely table. Not only had he created a 194 magnificent centerpiece of lilacs and white roses, but the table linens were exquisite. In the candlelight, the crystal and china sparkled. Unfortunately, after the explosion, all they could do was pick at their food Neither wanted to admit that it had cast a pall cm the evening, but the idea that some poor soul had just been incinerated on the street below took a toll.

Sophie drank more wine than die should have. The sight of the burning car got mixed up in her mind with finding George Gildemeister dead on his pantry floor. She tried to cover her jittery mood by talking animatedly about die dinner.

For the first course, Nathan had served a simple dish of die freshest oysters broiled on the half shell,
huitres gratinees en coquilles,
his one sop to his Cordon Bleu training. It was accompanied by a chilled Riesling. A salad of cucumber, tomato, romaine, and fried croutons in an anchovy and garlic dressing came next. A delicate
tortelloni de biete,
tortelloni filled with Swiss chard, was served as the pasta course. And the main course featured a delicious pan-roasted chicken with garlic, rosemary, and white wine —
polio arrosto in tegame.
Fresh asparagus cooked in a small amount of heavy cream and finished with a bit of freshly grated Parmesan cheese accompanied it, as did a crisp Pinot Grigio. Sophie wished she could have given the food and wine more attention, but the truth was, her mind was everywhere but on the food As she stood at the window, looking down on the scene of the explosion, all that remained of the intense orange and yellow flames was a reddish glow where die engine used to be. Smoke rose in gray puffs from the rear of the burned-out hulk. It was a depressing sight. She’d always been a fan of inner-city living. She didn’t view it as any more dangerous than any other part of the seven-county metro area. But if a bomb really had demolished that car, she might as well be living in Belfast.

Shaking off a sense of foreboding, she turned as Nathan brought the dessert tray into die room. He’d built a fire in the fireplace and she could see a decanter of brandy sitting next to a plate of fruit and cake. At least this part of the meal would be relaxing.

“Come sit down,” he said, giving the fire a good stoke.

The night had turned chilly. She was glad for the added warmth.

After dimming the lights, he joined her on the couch. He poured them each a brandy, then handed her one of the snifters. “If you’d like me to warm it for you …”

“No, this is fine.”

He smiled. “Help yourself.” He nodded to the dessert tray. “I thought something light might be best. The cake is called
torta di limone e ricotta.
It’s one of my favorites. Just a hint of ground almonds and lemon.” Grabbing a couple of strawberries, he turned his attention to the fire.

As Sophie watched him, she sensed that something was on his mind. When she’d first arrived at the apartment, he’d been putting the finishing touches on their salads. She’d left him to his work and wandered around briefly, peeking into rooms and deciding that the renovators had done a wonderful job of restoring and updating. When she’d returned to the kitchen, Nathan had been standing at the sink, staring at an empty glass. She’d stood in the doorway and watched him for almost a minute. He’d never moved. He hadn’t even blinked. It was probably arrogant, even silly, to think they still had the kind of bond that would allow him to confide in her. If he refused to talk to his uncle, a man with whom he’d always been close, why would he talk to a woman he barely knew anymore? But if something was wrong, if he was in trouble, mentally, emotionally, financially, legally, she wanted to know about it. It struck her that sharing confidences at a time like this might be unwise. Even so, she couldn’t help herself. She had to know he was all right.

“Nathan?”

“Uhm?”

“Is something wrong?”

He hesitated. “Where did that come from? Do I look like something’s wrong?”

“I don’t know. You just seem sort of down. I noticed it the other day, too. When we were at New Fonteney.”

Keeping his eyes on the fire, he said, “Mom’s not going to buy die property. Paul talked her out of it.”

She didn’t believe for a minute that this was the source of his moodiness, but she also knew it must have upset him. “I’m sorry.”

He shrugged. “Even Kenny thought it was a good investment. I just don’t get it”

“Maybe Minnesota holds too many bad memories for her. She lost her husband here.”

He looked over at her, obviously thinking about what she’d said, then turned back toward die fire. “I don’t want to talk about my troubles tonight Soph. I wanted this to be fun. A great meal. A lively conversation with … my … with you.” His smile was sad. “I don’t even know what to call you anymore.”

“Friend?”

He shook his head. “That doesn’t work, at least not for me.” He turned and touched her hair gently, stroked it for a moment then shifted his attention back to the burning logs.

“You said something the other day, Nathan. I was hoping you could explain it to me.”

“Uh, now you’re quoting me to myself. I always hate that I’m notoriously abstruse.”

It pleased her to think that she could still draw him out of his darker moods. “You said something about your life being a frustrated system.”

He nodded grudgingly.

“You said you couldn’t be close to your family, be happy, and have a conscience all at the same time. You could have any two, but not all three.”

“Did I say that?”

“You did.”

“Then it must be true.” He leaned back and smiled at her. “Why are we discussing some idle comment I made days ago? Half the time I don’t make sense, even to myself. I want to hear what you’ve been doing for the last twenty-five years. What you’ve learned about life and love and God and… and the significance of lime sherbet in American culture. What’s it like to have a son, Soph? And, hey, we only talked briefly about your parents. You said they were on a round-the-world tour. I’d like to hear all about it. Does your dad still smoke those awful cigars? And your mother, does she still make those wonderful lemon meringue pies? God, I used to fantasize about them. Your parents always liked me, you know. Thought I was great husband material.”

“You’re changing the subject.”

“The subject was boring.”

“You and your frustrations aren’t boring to me, Nathan.”

“Careful,” he said, taking her hand and drawing it to his lips. “I thought we’d decided on a course of action, or nonaction, as the case may be. You’d better not get too close or act too concerned. You might get burned.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Friends can show concern.”

He finished his brandy in one neat gulp, then set the glass down and eased over next to her, laying his arm across the back of the couch. “There. That’s more friendly. Your term.”

“You’re hopeless.” She sat up straight, taking a swallow of brandy. It was a struggle to be close to him and not let him know how much his physical presence affected her. She felt her face flush, though in the firelight she doubted he could see it.

They sat silently for several minutes, listening to the birch logs crackle and snap. She remembered now that as a young woman she’d often felt left out of his life, cut off from his innermost thoughts. She recalled writing in her diary once that she felt as if she’d been banging on the door to his soul for months hoping to be let in. It was a door that never opened. Funny, but all those melodramatic teenage maundering thoughts still seemed to apply.

There were so many subjects Nathan wouldn’t talk about. For instance, his childhood. She assumed it was because he’d been hurt, although she had no idea what the details were. It was odd, too, because when she first got to know him, his family was like something out of a Fifties’ TV show. Constance always looked perfect. Always wore a dress. Always had her hair styled at a beauty shop each week. She was often in the kitchen cooking something wonderful. Wayne was less overtly friendly but nice to her in his own way. He made lots of money and cooked hamburgers and steaks on the grill in the backyard. Emily was a tomboy. Full of high spirits. A good student, but also very pretty and active socially. Uncle Arthur had come to live with them just a month before she left for college. He seemed tired a lot, but with the exception of Nathan, Sophie had liked him the best. Indeed, the entire family had welcomed her with open arms. All except for Paid, that is. He was a freak of the first order, but it was the Seventies and he was a teenager. While Paul had never interested her, Nathan had consumed her.

Looking back on it now, part of the fascination for her had probably come from the fact that he’d been such a mystery. He’d been an intricate puzzle just waiting for her to figure out, not that she ever had. But she had fallen in love with him nonetheless. Maybe, after all these years, the essential mystery of Nathan Buckridge still drew her in — and demanded an answer.

Of course she wanted to tell him what had happened to her after she left the Church of the Firstborn. He deserved to know that he’d been right. She had been a fool to join such a crazy organization, and devote her whole life to serving a god some man had created in his own image. The church had been a sham, a cult, a power play by a sexually repressed Puritan who preferred control over everything else.

She also wanted to explain how devastated she’d been when her ex-husband had been granted sole custody of her son. It was the only time in her life that she’d ever truly considered suicide. She understood depression from the inside out, the feeling that you were at the bottom of a well and couldn’t get out no matter how hard you tried. Sometimes she’d sit in a chair for hours, never moving, not even turning her head. Movement had required too much energy and thought. And thought was the enemy. She had protected herself by tuning the world out, but at the same time she had been sinking deeper into that awful pit. If that’s how Nathan felt, she wanted to help him. But first he had to answer her question. “Come on, Nathan. Answer me.”

“Refresh my memory again. I’m getting older, Sophie. My brain cells don’t dance quite as well as they used to.”

“The frustrated system.”

“Oh. Right.”

She could feel him begin to play with the short wisps of hair around her neck. He was crossing a line. They had a deal. But she wanted a response to her question before she pulled away.

“Well, I guess you deserve an answer. I’m sure I would have talked more about it the other day, but we got interrupted by the storm. And then later by a kiss.”

She closed her eyes, trying to concentrate, but all she could focus on was the touch of his hand. This wasn’t fair.

“Okay. I’ve got three elements that I’ve determined are essential to my world. One is being close to my family. Two is being happy with my life, content with my decisions. And the third is having a conscience, personal integrity.”

“I don’t understand why you can’t have all three.”

“Trust me, Sophie. I can’t.”

“So which one do you give up?”

The tips of his fingers moved to the soft skin on the inside of her neck. “Well, I guess I’ve always put my family first. That’s a given. So the other two vie for dominance. Sometimes happiness wins, sometimes conscience does. Lately, it’s my conscience that’s been taking the worst beating.”